Chapter 48: Chapter 48
Chapter 48 The boy had a bad feeling
The child watched with wide blue eyes as his parents handed the evil man money. The boy, only being six years old, did not understand the sight before him, rather, he just sunk deeper into the corner of his dingy room and clutched his small blue blanket tightly against his chest.
The scary man was big and he wore a scowl on his face. He was pale, sickly looking. The remnants of his black hair hung just below his ears, and his once muscular frame was shriveling away.
The boy had a bad feeling.
He knew something was wrong.
Very, very wrong.
"Momma." He whimpers, sniffling as he does so.
The woman, a grey haired, scraggly looking thing that resembled more like one of those naked, hairless dogs squats down in front of her son.
Shoving an accusing finger in his face and gripping his wrist tightly with her other hand, she speaks, "You will go quietly with this man. He is taking you to your new home, we don't want you here anymore. I should of fucking aborted you when I had the chance but your father insisted we keep you for God knows what reason."
The little boy's bottom lip trembled. He didn't want to go somewhere with this strange, scary man, nor did he knows what his mother was talking about when she said aborted. What did it mean? The way she said it didn't sound very nice. On top of that, he didn't understand why his momma didn't love him back.
He didn't understand why because he had never done anything wrong. He was always a quiet child who liked to doodle in the dirt and soot of his bedroom floors.
He had never talked back, or raised his voice, or disobeyed his mother in any way. He hadn't stolen any of the food she made, ever.
He didn't, he couldn't, understand for the life of him what he had possibly done wrong.
He wasn't going to ask, either. Too many times his father had tied him down to his rickety old bed and beat him with a switch til he bled and was black and blue. Several times he would pass out during the beating.
A switch is a long, bendable rod. The switch that the boy's father had used on his son was eight feet long, complete with several sharp, pointy edges that was made to cut through skin.
A tear slides down the boy's cheek at the memory, and he shudders.
"The boy's name?" The scary man asks, glancing over at the frightened child.
The parents look at each other, and shrug. "We never gave him one," His father speaks, "We didn't believe he needed one, since we was not to live very long, any way."
The scary man raises an eyebrow, and shrugs. "Good doin' business with you." He says, and takes heavy steps towards the shaking boy.
The boy falls to the ground, cowering in fear as the man grabs him with large hands and throws him roughly over his shoulder.
The boy drops his blanket, his only item he has ever owned. Sadness strikes his heart when he sees his blanket lying on the dirty floorboards of his home.
But soon his blanket is the last thing that's on his mind.
Fear.
Terror. Absolute terror filled the boy's veins as the man carried him farther away from the only place he knew as home.
"Momma, help me!" He cries at the last minute, hoping that his momma would change his mind and embrace him in her arms.
But she doesn't.
His momma turns her back on him.
The boy's heart shatters, and his cries carries through the cool, midnight's air. His tears drip on his captor's back, but the boy does not care. He is too upset to care. The only life he's known has been thrown in the fire right before his eyes that have seen far too much violence for his age.
He is roughly thrown in the trunk of a black truck. It is cramped, and he smashes his small hands against the roof of the trunk, screaming and yelling. He's scared. He's confused. He doesn't know where he is going.
Everything is dark around him, he can't even see his own hands in front of him. He kicks and screams, hoping and begging that someone will open the trunk of the truck and let him out.
But alas, nobody does.
He thrashes around, kicking about wildly in hopes to pop the trunk open, but his efforts are proved futile. The driver, the scary man, turns up his music louder to drown out his victim's cries and useless screams.
Warm tears stream down the boy's face and he starts to hyperventilate.
He's claustrophobic, and he's just beginning to find that out now.
He can't breathe. He feels constricted and anxious. Panic arises in the poor boy, and a viscous panic attack takes a hold of him like a tiger taking hold of its prey by the neck.
He inhales and tries to breathe deeply but he can't. His rapid heartbeat thunders against his ribs and he chokes back sobs. His eyes dart around desperately searching for a place to escape, but his search comes up empty.
Stars dance across his vision, he's beginning to feel lightheaded from the lack of oxygen. He's terrified of not being able to breathe, but he can't help it. With a final cry, the boy blinks. Then stills.
He falls unconscious to the sound of the low humming of the vehicle he's trapped in.
The driver, the scary man, smirks when he finally hears the boy's frantic thrashing cease. He's made his money for the day. Five thousand dollars for the male child he had received. Male children were hard to come by in this business.
Children of either gender were hard to come by since teenagers were the most common in this business. Male children were exceptionally rare and sought after for perverted reasons.
The scary man thought it was wrong to abduct children and sell them for sexual purposes. However, he was simply following orders that his boss had made him do. And, at the end of the day, it was money.
Precious money to be used to buy more alcohol to drown his guilt and shame for leading hundreds of little girls and boys to their death.
It was true, most of the victims that were children didn't live for very long. Most of them died from being beaten to death after they had been used over and over again by the evil, perverted monsters that roam the hidden parts of the earth.
After eight long hours, the truck pulls into the Mojave Desert located in Nevada. Out there, in the middle of nowhere, the brothel is safe. There, they can hide in their little homes without being bothered.
It's a secret place that has yet to be found.
Customers can come and go whenever they please without prying eyes and nosy neighbors getting suspicious.
The man throws the trunk open, revealing the little boy. His cheeks are streaked with tears, both fresh and dry. His palms and fists are bloody and bruised from attempting to escape earlier. His eyes are half closed, exhausted from lack of sleep and nourishment. He quietly hiccups, and hides his face with his little hands when he sees the scary man.
The man rips the boy from the trunk, and once again, throws him over his shoulder. The boy is silent this time, he is too tired to react. He doesn't know what's happening and he doesn't have the energy to think much about it at this moment, either.
The little run down, trashy home the scary man enters is in shambles. The carpet is hard and crusty, and is stained with sweat, blood, and God knows what else.
Around thirty girls and one other boy, no older than twelve, are locked in the bedrooms. The doors are made of strong oak, ensuring no escape.
Even if a child did escape by chance, where would they run?
The desert is vast and deadly, and they don't know which road leads to the city or which road leads to their death.
"Boss," The scary man calls out, "I've brought your new order."
A man with tan skin and peppered black hair steps out from the bathroom. He looks of Southern American decent, and he's tall and big. Tattoos crawl up his arms and neck, and large piercings hang from his nostrils.
"Well, let me see him!" The pimp barks.
The scary man sets the little boy down on his feet. The boy collapses on his bottom, his head weakly lolls to the side.
"I thought you said he was healthy." The pimp spits angrily.
The scary man shrugs. "He was when I got him. He's been locked up in my trunk for the past eight hours. I'm sure some water will fix em' right up."
The pimp rolls his eyes. "Fine. Put him in with the others then, and take pictures of him. Customers will want to see him. He's a fine specimen."
The scary man nods twice and picks the boy back up. He throws him in with the other children and fetches the dog dishes from the moldy kitchen sink. He throws the dishes down on the floor, the water spattering on the little children's face.
Nonetheless, they drink.
Every single one of them drinks hungrily.
The smaller children get pushed aside, and are forced to cup the little droplets of water from the floor and drink it. Others simply lick the floor like animals.
The little boy watches the scene with wide eyes.
He had never seen something like this before.
"C-can I has swome?" He asks, struggling to pronunciation his words properly. A little girl with black hair and tan skin turns her head towards him. She shakes her head and says, "Yo no hablo ingles."
The little boy nods, recognizing the language she speaks. He wishes he could communicate with her.
By the time he makes his way to the water dishes, all the water is gone. He holds his small head in his little hands. He's so tired, hungry, and thirsty. Big people were weird, he didn't understand them.
They didn't explain anything to him, and on the rare occasions they did, they would use strange words like brothel and aborted.
Crawling into the farthest corner, the boy hugs his knees tightly to his chest and lies his head down on his knees. And he cries. He cries so hard his muscles ache and he shakes. He looks like an abused puppy beaten too many times.
The other children in the room don't speak much. A few of the girls braid each other's hair from time to time and little whispers are heard once in awhile, but they're so quiet he can't make out what they're saying.
And so he drifts off into a much needed sleep. He dreams of evil men doing horrible, unfamiliar things to him. He dreams of them stabbing him and beating him.
He whimpers in his sleep, and is jolted awake when the scary man drags him out of the room and into some weird pink room. The boy's hazy eyes glance around the room taking in all the pictures of girls, boys, and young women taped on the wall.
"Look at the camera." The scary man commands.
The boy does so.
Flash.
He blinks.
Flash.
He blinks again, the bright lights of the camera's flash still lingering in his vision.
Flash.
Finally, after many shots, the pictures are over. Now the boy is really confused. Why would he be dragged all the way out here just to have his pictures taken? It made no sense.
But the boy would soon understand when he was older. He would understand when other people would make him do things he didn't want to.
And he would understand when he was taken the first time at nine years old. Once the evil man was done using him, the boy lay on the floor completely naked in agonizing pain. Burning and intense fiery pain would bloom at every movement he would make. Even breathing was too painful.
He lay there alone and confused at what had just happened. He didn't know for sure what had just taken place. All he knew was that he never wanted to go through that again.
He was disoriented, and buried his head into his forearm and cried silently. He wailed when the scary man picked him up from the floor. Tears clouded his vision and dripped steadily onto the floor.
Dripping.
Dripping.
Dripping.
He was set down, surprisingly gently by the man, and left in a dirty bedroom alone, away from all the other children.
His forehead was drenched in sweat and his little fluff of brown hair stuck to his forehead. His eyes were swollen from crying and his entire body was in complete agony.
His face was contorted in pain.
So much pain.
After years of pain and constant rape, he would find himself in the same place over and over again. It was then at twelve years old, on the splintery, wooden floors, he finally understood his purpose.
To obey and submit.
And so this was his life.
This was the life of the unknown boy who's been crushed too many times.